


BOUNTY - The Crypt Chronicles (Book 1)

by acornozoi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Elves, Equality, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Must Read, Other, To Read, acornozoi, love is love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornozoi/pseuds/acornozoi
Summary: The story of Kouri is a story of internal conflict and triumph. As a young man in hiding, we get a look inside of how it feels to be hunted down and judged just for the color of your skin, your race, or the power you hold. Battling against the inhumanity of the human race, Kouri seeks to bring peace and perspective back to those oppressing him, and hope to those damaged by the unfair rule of the King of Walenvarge, a dictator ruling through harsh taxes, fear and blood.
Kudos: 1





	1. The Failsafe

Prologue 

Drisdel, Trading Post, Mid-Western Harruar.

August, 465

"Six weeks thus far, and not one loss." Boasted a commander standing toward the entrance of the tent, while the rain poured down outside. They were camping just outside of Drisdel, about a day's journey from Congarta. 

"Our forces in the north are stable. We've apprehended any political powers that were traveling away from their homes. The king can decide what to do with them." Another said. He was a courier of sorts, carrying messages mainly, fighting where he must. 

Hatya sat on his wicker stool, his fingers laced together, jet black eyes staring at the floor. Harruar was turning belly-up as they marched into each country and systematically lay siege on their lands, shooting any runners and executing any ambassadors who tried to sway them. It was a slow process, but ringing a people in and slowly constricting the circle seemed to be the best method of destruction. And with each new territory conquered, new human soldiers or lesser near-human mixed-breeds joined their ranks.

The system worked because the training was good. General Hatya saw to it himself. It was simple and to the point. He taught them to kill quickly, to fight at range and not to strike until a blow would sink. If they had abilities, magical or otherwise, they were to hold off on using them until a critical moment. This weeded out the weaklings and pulled the strong, battle-born individuals to the front. 

But, even with all their success, there was one country he feared. One people he knew could wipe out his forces in a single fell swoop, should they let a shred of their guard down. The Sanado- the last of the great races, and one of the most fierce. They drew their power from a seemingly unlimited source and were able to destroy a man from the inside out. Those that were expert with their skill could simply stare at someone and make them go mad. 

That much power was not meant to rest in the hands of any mortal, and King Melcar of Walenvarge, the last human kingdom, was the only one brave enough to say it. Hatya disliked the man. He was a bastard in every sense of the word. Yet, Hatya was able to respect him. The young king gave him a position. He'd been the first to make a decision to save generations to come. 

"We march to Congarta tomorrow morning." Hatya announced. "Prepare our men. Be ready to use the fail-safe."

The commander's gaze jerked to meet him, and his eyes twinkled with something like fear. "Our fail-safe? Forgive me, general, but that could damage not only the opposition, but our men as well. We have no method of understanding it. You saw what it did to our raiding party, in Meba..."

"It exists only in the case of an emergency, commander, so make sure that you and your men leave no room for error." Hatya responded, glaring. "Believe me. To defeat these people, the gods themselves must be standing behind us. We will have to use every ounce of our strength, power, and strategic ability to wipe these bastards off of the face of Harruar."


	2. Masses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are brewing at Congarta’s border as an army of amazing size amasses.

Congarta, Border District

Southern Harruar

August, 465

The Genshu of Congarta stood at the edge of the forest, staring at an army amassed just outside his of border, lying wait like a panther in the brush.

It had been sudden, without any warning. Kalind recognized the colors of Walenvarge, a country he himself had spent quite a great amount of time in, as a younger man. There had been no word of warning from any of the surrounding nations. What evil was breeding under his nose?

"My Genshu," his general called from behind him, breathless as he ran to stand at Kalind's side. "Word has come back from each border. We are ringed in. They've amassed an enormous army. One of the biggest we have ever seen." His voice was edged with fear, as he looked up at the genshu. "What must we do? We can shed no blood."

Damn the crafty Walenvargian snakes. Congarta was in the middle of a nation-wide festival, in which it was illegal to shed blood. The goddess's face was turned upon them, and she would tolerate no bringing of death while she watched them.

"Join me. Bring a small party. We will meet with them. There must be some reason for their appearance at this hour." Kalind murmured, glancing up at the setting sun. His violet-maroon eyes glinted with fear, though he tried to conceal it. If they were ringed in, Walenvarge was trying to pin them to one place. And with their southern border being a cliff that dropped into the ocean, they had succeeded. 

General Fudo bowed and backed away, slipping into the forest. Kalind stayed, watching the Walenvargian forces walking and moving freely about as their front lines protected them so that they could set up tents and trenches. 

After so many years, when Harruar was just healing from the war of Tekati Independence that had involved so many nations, was Walenvarge trying to start another? The land could not handle much more of this fighting. It left scars on not only the people, but the earth.

Fudo returned not long after he had departed, with six Sanado sentries.

Kalind hoped they would not appear intimidating. He knew that humans and physically smaller races had a tendency to be frightened at the stature of Sanado, and even their coloring. Their often pale milky skin contrasting with their blood red hair raised alarm in many, subconsciously. At night, in the bioluminescent glow of beautiful but dangerous Congarta, his pale skin glowed like a ghost, reflecting the moon and the blue lights of the bugs in the trees.

They marched out to the border, their weapons sheathed. Each soldier held his delicately designed helm at his side, while Kalind wore simply his elk-horn ringlet upon burgundy waves.

The Walenvargians took note, and a few scrambled off to find their leader. Kalind and his group stopped at the piled stone gate that marked their border, staring through it as he waited for the commander of the opposition to emerge.

When summoned, the general slipped from his tent, and without donning his armor or even formal clothing, simply walked out to meet them, with no men at his side, wearing his canvas night clothes. Kalind tried to brush aside his obvious disrespect, and extended a hand, to shake with the purple haired man. 

The general paused before him, staring up at his sanado opponent. He glanced at Kalind's hand, then crossed his arms, denying the shake. Kalind let his hands fall by his sides, frowning.

"What are you doing so close to my border?" He asked. The Walenvargian words felt rough and crude on his tongue. He had not used the language for a few years. "Surely there must be some reason that you would ring us in like this. We have already traded with Walenvarge this quarter. We have nothing else for you."

"Forgive me. I care not for your wares and goods." The general muttered, his jaw flexing. Kalind could sense a hint of an accent in him as well. Walenvargian was not his first language, either. Who was he? His skin was tan, like a Yavaahckan, but his accent was not recognizable. "I am General Hatya of Walenvarge. I carry orders from King Melcar the Conqueror to obliterate you and your people. As you can see, there is no room for negotiation. Good evening." He glanced between the shocked sanado sentries before he turned to leave.

Kalind paled. 

Walenvarge was going to obliterate them? On what grounds? No matter- he had to do damage control. He had to find a way to stop this budding war before it could bloom into bloodshed. 

"General Hatya," Kalind called to his enemy's back, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. "After this week is through, we will engage you in open battle. But please. Let us finish our holiday. The law prohibits us from killing, during this time. Let your men rest and gather their strength. Let us fulfill our religious duties. Then, you shall have your battle."

Hatya paused, but did not look back. 

"Fine," he called. "Finish your holiday. When I defeat you makes no difference to me. Stay within your forest or we will shoot you."

He disappeared back into his tent, and Kalind stood wordless. It seemed the balances of power were tipping like a seesaw, first one way, then in a few years, the other. Why could none be satisfied within their realms?

Fudo touched his arm. "My Genshu, we must return. You heard what he said. We stay out here, and we may be shot."

Kalind nodded and bit his lip. He turned and led the way back into the forest, as the last rays of the sun disappeared the trees lit up, the creatures and flora humming with a soft frequency of worship to their creator. 

One week. They had one week to prepare for a battle. Walenarvge seemed so certain of its success. Did they have some trick up their sleeve that Congarta could not stand against?

"Send word to the districts. Tell them to compile their able bodied men and women or any race, and to find weapons and provisions. As of this moment, we are under siege. The hope of Congarta lies on our shoulders."


	3. No Matter the Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wounded Sanado boy appears in Pavarur.

Pavarur Township

Mid-Harruarian Plaines

August, 465

The house was quiet. It seemed not even a mouse was moving. Everything was silent. A somber air hung over the entire township.

Tyrra could see out the window that flags were still flying, but the guards at their posts wore no armor, and their helms were set on the polls along the top of Pavarur's surrounding wooden-stave walls.

She may have been young, but she understood the customs. A great tragedy had occurred. It seemed this sign was repeated nearly by the week, as of late. There was great bloodshed surrounding her home.

She stepped away from her window, looking with big bright blue eyes at the hallway through her bedroom door. Her parents stood by it, speaking in whispered tones. Her mother's face was pale, her hands shaking. It was rare that she was so afraid. Tyrra had never seen her so bothered.

Even her father's deep voice, barely audible as he whispered, seemed shaken. Unsure. The tragedy growing in Harruar finally seemed to be effecting her parents.

Tyrra heard muffled yelling in the streets outside of her home. She turned her head, looking out of the window once more, puffy caramel-blonde jaw-length hair fluffing with the motion. Three men were running. Wall sentries. One of them carried something- the figure of a man, wrapped in a woolen blanket.

"Papa," she called, but her father had already hurried down the stairs to the front door, which he flung open. Alarmed voices echoed through the house. Tyrra turned, bare feet patting across the wooden floorboards. She came to the stairs, and stepped down them, her small legs having to reach far to touch each step.

At the base of the stairs, she paused. Her father was speaking hurriedly to the three men. "What is the meaning of this? Do you know who this is?"

"Kouri, the son of the Genshu of Congarta. Walenvarge latched onto Congarta. It was under siege for only three days before they stormed it and killed as many Sanado as possible. From what we understand... this boy is the only one to escape. Kalind is dead. Congarta is under Walenvargian occupation."

Their words faded away as Tyrra's focus fell on the cradled figure lying limp in the arms of one of the sentries.

He looked... dead, whatever he was. A pale arm was hanging out of the blanket, lifeless, seemingly.

She approached, hands clasped behind her to keep away the impulse to touch it. No one stopped her from approaching, too caught up in hurried conversation. When she drew close enough, brimming with curiosity, she pulled back the corner of the blanket from the figure's face.

It was not a man, but a boy. Tyrra's eyes widened just slightly, looking at the... well, what would have been soft features, which were splattered with blood and pus. A boy, perhaps eleven. Only a bit older than she. His eyes were closed, dark circles beneath them, skin turned nearly blue. His breath was very faint; she could barely feel it on her fingers when she held them under his nose. A horrible X shaped gash had caused the right side of his face to swell. His arms and legs were long, lanky, and the length of a grown man's.

But most intriguing to her, of all things, was the color of his hair. She touched it with her fingers. It was red, bright red, the color of fresh arterial blood, and warm to the touch. Even his eyebrows were the same color, and at a closer look, the baby hairs on his skin were just alike, barely visible.

What was he? She had never seen another like him before in her life...

She looked up at the sentry holding him, cocked her head and interrupted. "What is he?"

The sentry was silent, glancing instead to her father for explanation. He was hesitant, his eyebrows drawing. "This is a Sanado, Tyrra." He told her, biting his lip. "He is just a boy, and he is badly injured. It seems he fought and escaped from men far more experienced than himself. He may not-"

"Live?" She murmured, feeling a pang in her chest.

Tyrra's father nodded, his face grim. He took the boy from the arms of the watchman. "Thank you. I will... ponder our course of action." He concluded the conversation which Tyrra had entirely missed. The soldiers bowed, slipping back through the door, closing it behind them. Her father turned to carry the boy up the stairs, Tyrra climbing behind him.

"What's his name?" She asked as her father carried him into her room. They had no spare rooms, but she wouldn't mind to share. The boy was in far worse shape than she ever had been. Laid down on the woolen blanket, his lanky limbs sprawled out like a spider's legs.

Her father inhaled deeply, sitting down on the side of the bed, pulling Tyrra up to sit on his lap, kissing the top of her hair.

"Kouri, Prince Of Congarta, son of Kalind, the Genshu." He murmured. "But his people are no more. He was the last they found alive. No prince... he's just a beggar, now."

Tyrra wondered at his words. To her, lacking a kingdom did not make him a pauper. He was still a prince, and he deserved all the care she could give to him. "No, papa. He's a survivor." She looked up at her father, managing a small smile. "My survivor. He is my age. I will take care of him."

He chuckled at her innocent words, and slid her off of his lap, setting her feet on the ground. "Well, you can start by fetching some wet rags, some bandages, and suturing supplies. You know where to find them."

Smiling, she nodded and hurriedly ran back down the hall to find the supplies requested.

Already, she was empathizing and attaching herself to this boy. She wanted to help him, no matter the cost.


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allies of Walenvarge are left guessing at their futures. Six years pass, and Kouri and Tyrra travel all across Harruar to avoid being caught by Walenvargian soldiers and bounty hunters.

Yavaahck Shipping Ports

Northern Harruar, Walenvarge Alliance

August, 465

Voices shouted protests above the steady crashing of waves along the beach of Yavaahck, the largest Harruarian Port in the north that provided access to the Indian Ocean.

The Empire of Walenvarge was conquering or destroying everything in its path. The people of smaller cities and near-human races were in panic. The continent was echoing with questions that had no answers. Who would be next, they all asked? Who would take the fall after the Genshu of Congarta, the last leader with enough power to fight against Walenvarge's forces?

Hanan Amyrda, the governor over Yavaahck's ports, raised his hands in an attempt to steady his people. "Please," he called. "calm yourselves. We are allies with Walenvarge. Our people are kin by union. We will not be invaded. I am sure there is a reason for why this is happening."

The angry, frightened voices continued to grow louder and more agitated. Standing before him below the dock, hundreds had gathered along the beach, demanding answers from a man who had none.

He couldn't blame them- after all, they were only frightened. There had been no prior warning when all eight of the great races and their homelands had been systematically besieged, invaded, and then destroyed. As of yet, from what information he had gathered, no survivors had been found in any other lands that had not been turned in or executed on the spot. No one could comprehend any justification for Walenvarge's actions. It was heartless and cruel. Even with a boy-king on the throne, a regent or an advisor should have stepped in to quell the madness...

Yavaahck had lost half of its trade allies in a day. Congarta's main civilization was gone, and with it, the ability to expertly harvest medicines, fruits, and extravagant creatures for the education of other cultures. Many of its secrets were lost with the Sanado, the group most in touch with the deadly sacred forest in the south.

Nagrakea, the home country of the dragon descended Sarpa, always fighting and dying and pledging blood as honor, had been one of the first to fall. After eliminating them, the other great races had no battle-experienced allies to defend them.

The rest had followed, one by one, leaving their cities, towns and holy lands drenched in blood and gore.

Amyrda struggled to process it all. There were so many boxes and crates of trading goods sitting on the docks, waiting to be loaded onto ships that he would never sail. Just a week ago, after the issue of Melcar's monetary rewards to any who could pledge their loyalty to Walenvarge through blood, bounty hunters from several different lands had stormed Yavaahck's beaches and taken down the last of the great race survivors in the ports, who were for the most part unaware of the deaths of their people. It had been an all out blood bath. Some of the hunters even killed each other over the bounties. Amyrda's men had been dragging headless bodies away from the ports for days, and only that morning had he been able to come out and publicly address his people.

He let out a shaky breath, the exclamations of the crowd fading as he looked to his wife who stood by his side, pregnant with their first child, her belly round and ready to pop. She wore garments covering all of her skin aside from her eyes and hands, as did every other Yavaahckan citizen. Through the slit of the fabric on her face, he saw in her the same fear as the rest.

They had already chosen the name 'Reghan' for what they hoped to be a son, to one day take Amyrda's place as governor of Yavaahck. But their worry went without saying. What kind of world would their child be born into?

He swallowed down his fear for the sake of his people and glanced to the horizon. The sun was setting. Autumn was coming, and the cold months after them. It seemed an unfair turn of the wheel of fate, for the world to become so harsh after so much tragedy. He knew that curfews, credentials of citizenship and higher taxes would follow, in the best case scenario. In the worst case, leaders like himself would be invaded, deposed and probably replaced, if not assassinated, should they refuse to bend to Walenvarge's regulations.

He tried to give his people as many answers as he could. Above all, they were to stay calm and guarded. The watches around the borders would be increased, in order to spot Walenvarge coming from as far away as possible. Until they had more info, it was all they could do to handle the untied ends in Yavaahck.

What would happen to his people? The smaller races, the less powerful cities and countries? The king's terrible lack of communication and sporadic decision-making had cost him and his people all of their certainty and comfort. They could never stand against Walenvarge in open war.

Six Years Later

It was hot. Hotter than Kouri could ever enjoy. The sun burned down on his back, and there were no trees for shade. Summer was in full blast.

He wished so desperately so take off the piece of fabric covering his face, and the hood covering his head, but at the risk of revealing his heritage, he could not.

He wished so desperately so take off the piece of fabric covering his face, and the hood covering his head, but at the risk of revealing his heritage, he could not 

He glanced at Tyrra, who was walking in the grass by his side. The top of her head reached only to his shoulder, and he was still growing- had barely begun to hit the height of his physical change.

"How much farther today?" He asked her, crimson eyes glancing at the horizon, a droplet of sweat running down his nose. They were traveling through the Mid-Harruarian Plains toward a refugee camp of sorts in the west, near Sandori, the capital city of the Yerno Desert-Country. Being out in the open with few trees and fairly flat terrain made him feel exposed and uncomfortable. Anyone could see the two of them traveling alone and strike.

His bones ached and his pale skin was feeling sunburned even through the dark garments he wore.

Tyrra glanced up at him. Her deep blue eyes twinkled, and the skin of her freckled-covered nose bunched. Her mask and hood were slightly askew, blowing in the wind. "Don't start wilting now; we have to get there by nightfall." She snorted. "It's a miracle we haven't run into any bounty hunters yet. We need to get to Chatan's camp quickly. I want to know what routes Melcar's forces are taking this month, so we can avoid crossing paths with them."

Melcar. That name caused shivers up his spine, forming goosebumps on his arms. The man who had taken away everything he knew before he had been old enough to truly value it. The king of a kingdom of monsters, Walenvarge.

He ached to face him. To ask him, why? What had his people and all the rest done? Secrets and mystery surrounded the events, six years previous... he could still vividly remember awakening in a foreign home, miles from the forest of which he was a prince. Weeks later, Tyrra's father took a group and slipped into Congarta to ascertain the extent of the damage, only to find that every Sanado, and anyone else who had gotten in the way, had been shot dead by arrows or hacked in half by swords. Even those who had escaped into the borders of surrounding countries had been hunted down and murdered. Those from the other great races who had survived had lasted only a year or less. Melcar announced that any country which was found to be willfully harboring survivors was to be counted as an enemy of the Empire of Walenvarge, and war would be waged upon them. It was not long before many countries produced the leftovers of the great races, some dead, some living, and some in pieces.

After that fateful day, Kouri had vowed that he would not return to Congarta until he had aided in the disposal of the man who had taken so many innocent lives.

He did not believe in needless slaughter. Life was a gift, according to the goddess that he had always worshiped as a child. Life was as valuable and more valuable than any precious gem or resource. How could someone so heartlessly take away what no human (or near-human) could fabricate?

No, Kouri did not believe in slaughter, but he did believe in the protection of the helpless, harmless, and innocent. If that meant the removal or execution of a few corrupt individuals, so be it.

"I want to face him." He stated to Tyrra, pushing an escaped strand of hair back into his hood. He had said it countless times before, and would continue to say it until his wish was fulfilled. "I want to know what kind of sick bastard can look at innocent men, women, infants and children and give the command for their mass execution."

"I know." Tyrra murmured, reaching up and patting his back. "But you're not ready. Until you can use your abilities at full potential, you can't face Melcar's men. Even the most experienced of the great races were unable to stand against them. Until you can understand the game, you cannot play against the dealer."

It was the same reply she always gave. There were so many missing pieces to the puzzle of the events that had occurred six years previously. No one quite understood how humans were able to overcome and overpower near-humans and the abilities and magical gifts they possessed. Until they could glean enough information from the terrified public, they were unable to act without fear of approaching Walenvarge and being shredded by some hidden asset.

He picked up his pace, moving forward faster than Tyrra, who ran to catch up.

They traveled until the sun had gone down, keeping their guard up, should any unwanted visitors attempt to harvest their heads for a few coins.

Eventually, Tyrra paused, closing her eyes.

Kouri followed suit, letting his eyes fall shut so that he could feel the aura of the border around the refugee camp, which kept it hidden. He could feel a warm, friendly tingling against the left side of his face. It was close.

"Right there." Tyrra murmured, motioning in the direction he'd sensed the magic. "I can feel it that way."

"The same for me. I was afraid we'd never find it again." Kouri murmured, turning to follow the trail that the protective magic had left. The closer they got, the more the warm feeling grew, until finally, about a half a mile out, the magic dissolved.

The camp fire reflecting off of many white tents in Chatan's camp became visible as the natural light faded. Music could be heard, joyful whoops and hollers, and figures with joined hands dancing in circles around a tall bonfire.

"Think he'll have any valuable information?" Kouri asked, eyes focused on the gaiety. His heart thumped with adrenaline. He wished to run and join the group he had once called home.

"He always does." Tyrra smirked. "Until then... you can take off some of those layers. We have some dancing to do."


	5. Chatan's Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kouri and Tyrra reach Chatan's camp. Chatan shares strange rumors about the trees of Congarta coming to life.

Chatan's camp had always been a safe-haven for world-weary travelers and renegades. They accepted without question. If you pulled your weight and kept their secrets guarded, you were a friend.

Kouri and Tyrra had traveled with the group for almost an entire year, when they were first out on their own and in need of adult wisdom.

Tyrra's father had been unable to shelter him without risking the slaughter of their own people for harboring a child marked for extermination, and had planned to send him off to be on his own, with provisions and a weapon. Kouri still remembered standing at the top of the ring of hills surrounding Pavarur, shivering in the cold, staring at the gates that locked him out. But young empathetic Tyrra, feeling unable to leave him defenseless against soldiers and bounty hunters, had run away to join him that evening with her own stock of daggers and stolen food.

She had been trained since the age of four, as was customary for her people, in the art of stealth and combat. She had done her best to pass down what she could, though her techniques could only go so far with someone of his height and build.

It still amazed him that she had been willing to leave everything she knew at such a young age. Had she stayed home, she would have continued training and then could have been hired by a lord or governor in need of protection, as was customary of her people. If she had chosen to take a more domestic route, she could have become an official for Pavarur, and married to someone who matched her desires. Her fifteenth birthday, which was approaching in just a few short months, would have been her time to decide.

He could never repay her for sacrificing an opportunity at a good life just to make sure he survived.

Upon reaching the tents of Chatan's camp, they were included into the dance, with arms over shoulders, legs stomping and kicking toward the bonfire. Tyrra joined immediately, dancing, laughing and joking. Voices called to greet them in several languages, and people looked up to wave at Kouri, who waved back happily as he paused just outside of the dancing circle. He untied a piece of string from his wrist, using it to pull back the top half of his crimson hair. His bangs flopped into his face close to his eyes, which annoyed him, but it was the best he could do. He couldn't cut his hair, or it would leak blood and scab over like disgusting dreadlocks.

It was here that he had learned the widespread tongue of Walenvarge, which had become common after the massacres, when the languages spoken by the great races began to die out.

Perhaps he would dance. He was unsure of whether or not he could make his feet move as quickly as the smaller people, now that he was so much taller than them. Yet, he took off his cloak and folded it over his forearm, then lay it over a dry log used for sitting, near the dancing ring. He had scarcely removed his thick turtleneck, leaving only a faded tan undershirt, before a passing woman grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the crew.

It was hard to keep up, but he managed to catch the beat. He could see Chatan, lit by the fire, dancing straight across from him, laughing, gentle crow's feet crinkling in the tan skin around his eyes. Kouri had noted upon first meeting the man, years previous, that he seemed the happiest, most well-balanced person he had ever met. He had never seen Chatan angry or upset. In fact, it seemed those emotions did not exist in his emotional range.

They danced for hours, until Kouri had thoroughly sweat patches through his shirt. He sat down, legs shaking, wiping sweat from his brow, pumping his shirt in an attempt to cool down. Dancing close to a fire on a hot summer night had not been the best idea.

Tyrra, cackling like a maniac and drinking something most likely too strong for her, plopped down beside him and nearly fell over. He chuckled and placed a hand on her back to steady her.

"That was fun." she giggled. "Have you found a lover this time?" Her hand fumbled to smack his shoulder.

Kouri shook his head with a light snort. Her stupidity amused him. He didn't have the head-space to think about a lover, when he could barely keep himself out of danger, and much less account for the safety of another.

Chatan swaggered over. He wore only a pair of loose harem pants, a reflection of the culture he had once claimed as his own, and his brown skin was slick with sweat and smudged red paint. His hair was long enough to reach his shoulder blades, and white as snow, with choppy bangs, as if someone had taken a knife straight through them.

"Can I assume you've come for the most recent gossip?" He asked through a thick indian accent, giving Kouri a smirk and a wink. "I have plenty to tell the both of you. Strange things have been happening in the south. They are changing their routes from weekly to daily, and increasing their presence in the nations they have already conquered and occupied."

Tyrra cursed. "Which countries? Kouri and I can't keep running all the time. We are going to have to find somewhere to settle him down and see if we can learn his abilities properly, and it seems as though they fluctuate each month."

Chatan shrugged. "I have observed no distinct patterns. At the moment, bands of fifty are trekking from Walenvarge, along the country roads, from as far north as Yavaahck to as far south as Drisdel and the borders of Congarta. The west is less manned, but still dangerous. Sandori is overrun by guards. Oh yes, and I have the news from my source in Walenvarge. The king seems to have elected a new general to do his bidding."

Kouri's heart squeezed. A new crony, in place of the one he was rumored to have killed when he was younger. Would this one be as bloodthirsty? Stronger, or weaker? More level headed, or less?

"Do they patrol through Congarta?" He asked Chatan in nearly a whisper, the name of his homeland catching on his tongue. He had not spoken it in months.

The man frowned, and puffed his bangs from his eyes, only for them to fall back again.

"Rumors have been circulating, my friend." He shook his head. "Rumors of an angry goddess. Of the trees awakening, and hanging the men of Walenvarge in their vines as they walk. Beasts emerging that are so vicious... even the experienced huntsmen are unable to survive an attack. Congarta is vengeful. Even those who are native to the country are finding it hard to coexist with the increasingly harsh conditions. Walenvarge withdrew its forces three months ago to the day, though the Congartan government is still expected to conform to the taxes and tithes that were placed on the remaining people during occupation."

He didn't know how to process this. Trees coming alive? He did not remember that being mentioned in his childhood, though his memory of his old life had faded considerably through the years. Yet, always, Kouri revered Congarta as a force that should not be controlled, but rather understood. He was glad that the Walenvargian soldiers were not ravaging its valuable resources or cutting down the forest any longer... but he also feared for those who still lived there. Would they too be purged from their homeland?

"I never remember hearing about Congarta being alive." Tyrra mumbled, fingering a strand of her own hair, brow drawn. "I wonder if it could be a cover for some crafty tricksters trying to gain independence again. Humans have always been more afraid of magic than of other humans and near-humans. Blame mysterious hangings on a magical forest, and you have a concoction that would send any Walenvargian running for the hills."

Chatan chuckled, but nodded slowly. "It could be any number of things. Though, I feel that the former may be the more accurate answer. Harruar seems to have forgotten her magical roots. The people were very much more aware of the living souls of even the most simple creatures, two hundred years ago. Not all life must breathe, see, and feel in the same sense as humans and near-humans do, in order to live and have a soul."

Kouri's heart thudded in his chest. Could it be true? Could the forces of nature be recognizing the damage Walenvarge was causing, and fighting back?

Even in his childhood, the most magical thing he remembered existing in the expanse of the forest was the Saeng, the gigantic tree that Sanado culture held as a holy ground. It was the source of their power, he was told. Some believed it housed the mother goddess, the deity his people had worshipped.

He questioned those beliefs, now that he was grown. If the mother goddess was real, and indwelled herself in the Saeng, would she not have saved them, when they were besieged, held captive, and systematically executed in front of thousands?

"Whatever you do, keep the prince alive." Chatan continued. "Walenvarge despairs to ever find him- they are beginning to think that he was in fact killed, and that his existence is a rumor. That is why they are bearing down and following every lead that they catch wind of. They hope to force you out. The bounties increase with every passing week, yet everyone is unsuccessful."

"And unsuccessful will they stay." Kouri decided, pulling idly at a few strings coming out of his pant leg. "I have no plans to be found any time soon. I should be growing into my people's power soon... if what I remember is correct." He glanced over to Tyrra, who was watching him with a glint in her eye. "Then, we can at least help put a stop to this."

"Damn straight." Tyrra nodded, clapping him on the shoulder.

Chatan chuckled. "Well it sounds as though you two have things figured out. Now if you don't mind..." he glanced back at his people, laughing and drinking to their heart's content. "...I think I will join my people a while longer. We are relocating tomorrow, and then I shall have to abstain from drinking until we are settled. Truth barriers are always such a bother. They require so much sobriety."

"Where will you be?" Tyrra asked, smiling. "I like the taste of your booze."

"Around." Chatan winked. "Find me as you always do- your bond to us will always show you the way. Until then... goodbye, prince, lady assassin. I hope for good fortune in your favor."

Kouri dipped his head, watching as Chatan departed to merge back into the merriment.

Tyrra laughed under her breath. "It seems he is never too buzzed to give us a blessing." She noted, making him snicker, before she lay down in the grass and closed her eyes. "Take the first shift?"

He nodded, and she rolled over to drift off. Then it was only Kouri's thoughts, the laughter of Chatan's people, and the night.


	6. The General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years after Hatya's death, King Melcar of Walenvarge has elected a new, young general to lead his forces.

Sandori

Yerno Desert Country, Western Harruar

The smell of dust and sand was strong enough to choke. The heat was nearly unbearable, and the air was fit to mummify a man. In Sandori, water was less common than jewels, and twice as expensive.

The jingling of jewelry, shouts of those bartering in stalls, and the mulling of pack animals filled the air. Music from flutes hummed through the crowds, from musicians on rooftops.

The bronze gates of the city burst open, and through them a figure riding a mataca- a two-legged creature with short hair, hand-like paws on the ends of four sets of arms, eyes with films to protect them from sand, and long ears like a mule. They were quite common in the Yerno desert country.

The street blanketed with quiet and many members of the crowd turned, startled by the sudden entrance. The opening of the gates was mainly saved for royalty and nobility, since there was a smaller entrance next to each gate, meant for commoners. Sandori had not seen a noble visitor in several years.

The newcomer was short, wearing a long white cloak wrapped around his shoulders and face, leaving only his eyes visible. A sleeveless laced up leather tunic lay under the cloak, fur lining the arm holes and neck. His pants were loose canvas, stopping at the shin, where thick boots began. On the side of the saddle was strapped a khopesh, the scratched iron hilt revealing it to be quite old.

His eyes were belittling and prideful. He glared down at each of the urchins lining the street as he rode passed, civilians making way for him. He did not look like a soldier of Walenvarge... but could he have been? He had not been stopped at the gate to be searched or documented. Sandori was already occupied and regulated by the king's soldiers; another enforcer or overlord seemed overkill.

He continued to ride down the main street in silence, which led to the Temple of Saule, the temple of the sun goddess. The golden plated sandstone dome rose high above the city, gleaming to entice travelers and pilgrims. Soldiers posted by the arching entryway of the building shoved worshipers aside to make room for him.

At the foot of the steps, he dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to a peasant woman standing nearby. Her face paled as she stared at the leather in her hands. What was she to do with the creature?

"Keep it." He mumbled. The pitch of his voice could not be determined; every word was mumbled. "I can find one any time I like."

She dipped her head, stunned and unable to speak, and stared after him as he walked straight up the steps.

Who was this man? Why was he here?

Once in the shade of the temple, he sighed and pulled down his hood, ruffling his lavender hair as he strode toward the large golden throne meant for the goddess. And here, in the city of temples, this one could be his. What better way to assert his control on these oppressed, sheep-like people than to scoff at their gods, or better yet, replace them?

Up he climbed, and there he sat, looking down at the observing gaze of the fearful public that gradually trickled into the temple's shade. The heat forced a drop of condensation from his hairline. He wiped his brow.

He doubted he would catch any trails leading to the Bloodling, that supposed Sanado prince, here in Sandori... but it was a good place to make a debut, to throw his weight around a bit- test his strength and authority.

The vigorous training he had put himself through and the strain he had forced on his body in the last seven years had finally paid off. The king had seen his ability and taken a gamble. Though he was just a boy in the eyes of many, he knew he could prove himself to all of those who doubted his skills. It would take time and patience, but he knew he had the power within his grasp to track down the trails that would lead him to the Bloodling and his little helper. So many others had failed, any information slipping through their fingers or becoming blurred rumors. But this... it was personal, for him.

"Well?" He shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. "Get back to it. You have nothing to stare at. I am here to watch you, as Walenvarge's general. If you obey myself and the king, you have no need to fear. Now go!"

He watched with satisfaction as his new subordinates nudged and pushed the commoners back out of the temple, to go about their business. It seemed he held so much power in just a few simple words and gestures. It was nearly intoxicating to finally be the one giving the orders, pushing people around just as he himself had been pushed about for so long.

He wouldn't mind putting up with special treatment for a little while.


	7. Sandori, City of Temples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kouri studies Valvel, a fallen city in Harruar's south. Tyrra suggests that their smuggle Kouri into Sandori by hiding in the saddle bag of a Mataca... but chasing down the Mataca proves a difficult task.

A/N: HI! Thank you so much for reading the first five chapters! If you're enjoying the story so far, please don't forget to vote! Comment your favorite character so far!  
________________________

In the morning, Tyrra shook Kouri awake. She'd had the final watch to allow him to sleep until sunrise. He was still half asleep as he packed up his bedroll and slung it and his travel-bag over his shoulder. She helped him cover up his face again, tying on the dark colored cloth strips that concealed the pale white skin of his arms and neck.

"What direction are we going in?" Kouri murmured, following Tyrra as they trekked away from Chatan's camp, which was beginning to stir from its drunken stupor and pack up to move again. Kouri glanced back, just in time to see Chatan stumble out of his tent with a grin on his face. He raised a hand to wave goodbye, but paused when he spotted another man following Chatan out of the tent, looking quite satisfied. Kouri would never get used to Chatan enjoying both men and women, even though he had been aware from the very first year he met the man.

Tyrra chuckled at his expression, elbowing him. "Come on, stop staring. It is not as if this is the first time."

"I know." He managed, shrugging. "I simply... cannot see the appeal?"

She snorted and strung an arm around his waist. She would have strung it around his shoulders, except that she was much too short. Short even for her age.

What she lacked in height she made up for in ample personality.

"So you enjoy women. He enjoys men and women. You do not have to understand it- that is his personal alignment, not yours. But one thing I will say is that people with the oddest, most scorned interests are generally the most accepting of others who are also scorned. Even if not scorned for the same reasons."

He cocked his head, wondering over her words. People who were cast out by the rest of society generally seemed to band together in a hunt for acceptance. And that hunt for acceptance had led himself and Tyrra to Chatan, where they had found refuge for an entire year.

"I suppose I should be thankful for that."

~

One of the activities Tyrra enforced on their long journeys was the study of the eight great races. Knowledge was lacking about many, but they owned one of the very rare, highly illegal forbidden volumes, detailing the cultures and customs of the lost civilizations. Much information on the biology and anatomy of the peoples had been lost or erased, but they had been lucky enough to pass through Viche, capital city of Meba, during the time of the book burnings. It had been shaken out of the back of a cart destined for the flames, as if destined to fall into their hands.

"Valvel," Tyrra suggested. "What do we know about Valvel?"

Kouri frowned, glancing down at the leather-bound handbook as they walked. He flipped through it, glancing at the various charcoal sketches created by some distant explorer that was most likely dead. He tried not to touch the illustrations, to avoid smearing them.

"Valvel," He repeated, finding the page. Tyrra was stuffing her mouth with bread. "City of the Sarpa. The capital city of Nagrakea, on the Adrenn Peninsula of Harruar, where it's the warmest. Sarpa require warm temperatures to keep their blood flowing, since their bodies cannot efficiently regulate their own heat."

"We already know that." She elbowed him, crumbs falling from her lips. "What about execution customs, mating standards, social practices?"

The Sarpa were probably his least favorite race to have learned about. Though they were one of the great races... there was hardly anything 'great' about their actions. Their history was so oddly barbaric, and seemingly for no reason except for their rendition of 'glorification' in the form of bloodshed and gore.

"Execution customs... mainly disembowelment, evisceration... occasional beheadings, for smaller crimes. 'Crimes,' being relative. No one is truly sure what all will reward you the death penalty. It seems to be dealt at a whim. Mating standards: if you like the pheromones, bed them, and if they please you, there is the option to permanently mate. Reproduction is difficult, though it wouldn't at first seem that way due to their high numbers. The females are not overly fertile. Social practices..." his eyes widened, scanning the page. "...see the mating standards section."

"Sexy." Tyrra giggled, to his dismay. "Do you think there are any left?"

Kouri bit his lip and shook his head, closing the book.

"Perished with the rest of us." He murmured, handing her the volume. "Walenvarge wasn't able to take them by surprise, and met them in open battle, however they overestimated their own abilities and were wiped out in colder lands. If there were any survivors left, I doubt they would be able to stay quiet for long. Their culture was drenched in a 'death in battle or no honor' mentality. They would have probably started a riot by now and died."

Tyrra remained silent.

Thinking of the massacres was grim. He wished he knew for sure if there were more survivors. It would ease the guilt of his own existence a bit, after so many had died. Why was he alive? Him, of all people that could have survived?

He felt his hands shaking a bit, and noticed a bit of sweat slicking his palms. Memories were resurfacing, but he tried to push them out of his mind.

"You never told me where we were going." Kouri changed the subject, glancing at the horizon. The sun was bright, but clouds gave him a bit of relief from the heat. They had been walking west, but that meant very little. Often they circled or doubled back, depending on if they were being followed or not.

"The last place Walenvarge would expect us right now." Tyrra smirked. She reached into her green cloak, revealing to him a shiny iron knife with a ruby in the hilt. "The perfect place for you to test your abilities. Underfed, underpaid, low-morale and low-expectations soldiers, the farthest from their home that they can possibly be. They'll be easy for you to pick off, even if you have no idea what you're doing."

His feet paused, and his heart thumped. "I... I'm not sure I want to kill. I didn't enjoy it very much last time..." It had been messy, but necessary in order to defend himself... yet he didn't want to repeat that incident. He had felt awful for weeks afterward.

"Then don't kill them, just badly wound them. Don't you want to see what you can do? It will get you one more step closer to the king..." She turned, facing him. "You'll have to kill someone at some point anyway, even if it's just Melcar."

He swallowed. They had been raised so differently, with completely different outlooks on taking life. "I suppose."

Tyrra clapped her hands once. "Good. We'll have to enter illegally, though. If what Chatan said about Sandori being overrun by soldiers is true, they will be actively canvassing the city and entryways. We will have to get in another way." She resumed her walking.

Kouri followed, glancing down at his own long legs and large feet. "How do I do that? I don't think sneaking a me anywhere is an easy job."

Tyrra winked at him, from over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. "I have my ways."

~

A few days later, when the sandstone walls of Sandori caught the sun in the distance, Kouri discovered that riding in the saddle bag of a mataca was miserable. Though, a saddle bag might have been an upgrade- this was practically a hammock on the side of the creature, with ropes.

Chasing the mataca down had not been an easy feat. The herds were not difficult to find, but sneaking up on them was. He and Tyrra had spent hours chasing the creature around, trying to keep up with its speedy legs. It was built for running on sand, and they were not in the slightest. He kept overheating and had to let it escape so that he could catch his breath, much to Tyrra's annoyance.

Eventually, realizing they would have to be smarter and not faster, they managed to chase the creature into a ring of dusty rocks too tall to jump over, and throw a rope around its neck. It had taken almost all of the rest of the previous day to teach the mataca that obeying direction meant a tasty piece of dried meat.

Now that they had managed to calm it within the acceptable parameters, he regretted ever catching it at all. Tyrra had fashioned herself a makeshift saddle from her cloak and was using the rope as a set of reins. One of their blankets had become the homemade saddle bag. Kouri was packed in tight, the bag stuffed with rags and clothes around his limbs and back to keep the bulges from appearing humanoid.

It was claustrophobic and hot. Kouri could barely feel a thing except heat, all around him, and the ache of his neck and back, being curved for so long. He could hear the swish of the sand under the animal's feet, and Tyrra's rough breathing as it jarred her with each step.

"Not much farther," she called to him over the blowing of the wind. "I can see the dome."

Some hope sprang to life in his chest. It would not be much longer before he could be let out of his cloth prison. The sight of the dome of Sandori's greatest Temple of Saule meant they were close. The walls would be growing larger with every step, and then the gates. Two gates, one facing west and one facing east.

The ride lasted another hour. Kouri tried to practice breathing without feeling suffocated by the hot air. Deep down, he wondered if it would have been so bad simply to try to enter the city on foot, disguised as usual. If Sandorian local operators were working the gates, he would have no issue. They asked no questions. But Walenvargian soldiers...

Finally he heard voices, the lowing of cattle, and the screech of metal as the gates pulled open and closed, allowing travelers in. A man with a thick Walenvargian accent asked Tyrra what she was towing, and she told him she was carrying fabics and weaving goods, to account for the strange shapes in the saddle bag. The soldier, sounding tired and burned out, waved a hand and allowed her passage through the gates and into the desert city.

Tyrra guided the mataca to a stable, past countless guards and soldiers. When the stall was closed and she was sure no one was looking, she helped Kouri out of the stuffy fabric. Quite a few of his bones popped and ached in complaint. "I am never doing that again." He groaned, wincing at the crick in his neck, rolling his shoulders.

She laughed quietly at him. Kouri set to wrapping himself up like a tourist, cloaking himself and tying a few rags around his head to hide all but his eyes. The hood of his cloak would shade them enough to keep passers by from noticing their blood red hue.

It took them a while to find a good inn. Some were completely filled- mostly those in close proximity with the Temple of Saule. Tourist season was at its peak in the summer, when the gods were said to be most active. They found a quiet privately owned hostel on the west side of the city, where there was less foot traffic. 

In their room, he finally cast aside his garb, save for his canvas pants, and lay on the bed, which creaked loudly under his weight.

"A bed." Kouri exhaled, rubbing his face against the scratchy thin sheets. "I haven't felt a bed in weeks."

"It probably has mites," Tyrra winced, looking all about the wood and sandstone-brick room. She swept her finger along the windowsill, picking up quite a bit of dust. "This is the cheapest place I could find. I paid the owner a bit extra, so maybe he won't tell any soldiers about the tall man all wrapped up from head to toe and his weird companion."

At that moment, Kouri didn't care about bribes or politics or soldiers. All he wanted was sleep... precious sleep. But Tyrra wasn't ready to allow it to him.

"We need to find something to eat before dark or you'll be up at midnight, hungry." She patted him on the back, then peeled her hand away with disgust. "Oh god, you need a bath. You are sticky."

"Then do not touch me." He huffed, frowning into the pillow. "I'll eat- but no slugs this time."

Tyrra laughed at him. "I swear, I will not make you eat slugs."

The delicacy in Sandori was a type of giant slug, as long as a hand and as thick around as a forearm, fried to be crispy on the exterior and juicy on the interior. He wasn't so desperate for moisture that he would eat the slimy luxury- he would rather drink his own sweat.

They went down into the marketplace. There were so many different peoples traveling, thankfully, of all different heights and builds, that they would not be picked out among the lot. Still, they skirted away from soldiers. Just being in the same street with them caused Kouri's palms to grow clammy.

They gathered a few fruits and vegetables, and a slab of meat, freshly butchered. Their arms laden with wrapped packages, the duo worked their way back through the thick crowd and into the hostel once more, where they cooked their meat and ate their fruits and vegetables.

The next day would mark the beginning of his ability training. Testing. Learning. Kouri was hesitant to kill or maim but... he needed to know what he was capable of. He tried to justify himself in that he knew none of the soldiers were totally innocent, but the guilty feeling didn't go away.

With full stomachs, they both turned in for the night, unafraid of being found. Both were unaware of the threat lurking just blocks from their dusty sandstone hide away- the king's new general, forcing order upon the fearful residents of the sandy city.


	8. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kouri practices his magic on the Walenvargian soldiers occupying Sandori. During an unfortunate tussle, his mask is ripped off and his identity is revealed...

Kouri walked along the dusty street, his boots patting lightly in the sand.

Tyrra had given him a knife, but instructed him not to use it unless there was an emergency. Today, he was to rely on his powers. He was to stop thinking about using his abilities, and instead, use them.

It felt strange, not to find Tyrra by his side as he walked through the early morning, between the dilapidated buildings and through small alleyways, trying not to kick up large clouds of dust. Sandori was in terrible disrepair on the outskirts of the city, where there was less foot traffic. Kouri could only imagine what it had been like in its prime. Had it ever been in its prime? It seemed impossible to picture the city as anything other than merchant-covered ruins.

Avoiding civilians was difficult, especially in sunlight. Kouri stepped into the shade or nooks between buildings when someone walked past. His heart jerked each time. Killing a soldier here would be difficult; if one walked close, it would likely be difficult to kill without a civilian seeing. Then again, he highly doubted he would be able to kill anyone. Maiming seemed the lesser of two evils.

Kouri snuck into a section of alley close to the city wall, waiting. Perhaps the sentries would pass by it and he could yank one into his hiding place.

He waited for what felt like hours. The spot he was standing in seemed to be giving him little to no action. He stepped out, looking up and down the sandstone alleyway, before he froze.  
Footsteps in the sand. The click of metal. Everything inch of his being recognized the sounds of a Walenvargian guard.

He ducked back into the alley his back pressed against the wall as he waited for the soldier to pass. Soon, a man of medium stature passed, wearing the typical dull plate-armor of the Walenvargian soldiers. The acorn-shaped helm glittered in the early light, and he yawned.

Clearly the occupying soldiers hadn't seen much action in Sandori at all.

Kouri took a deep breath and acted. He grabbed the back of the man's neck, and just... pulsed. It came as naturally to him as speech or breathing. He felt the blood run hot in his arm, and a tug in his chest- perhaps his heart. His hand was pulled tight against the man's neck, as if drawn by a magnetic surge. He pushed.

A sickening pop sounded. A vein in the man's neck burst, causing him to scream and wriggle. The blood burst through the skin, causing a growing dark patch. Kouri quickly released him, spooked. He ran into the alley again to make his escape. There was a slightly fatigued feeling in his limbs.

His chest squeezed. Kouri looked down at his blood covered hand, like a weapon that could go off at any moment. Was this the ability he was gifted with? Was it a gift, truly? He felt sick. His stomach churned, and he swallowed bile. He never remembered his father returning from battle covered in blood... perhaps he was doing it wrong. He wiggled his fingers, covered in the tinny liquid, nearly unable to face the reality that he may have killed that man.

Another surge jerked through his chest. The blood, to his shock, spiked. It turned solid, in little crystalline formations on his palm. He flinched and to the ground they fell, once again liquefying. A bit more energy left his body, but not as much as before.

It took him a moment to process, but slowly, he began to form ideas. He said a cautionary prayer his childhood goddess for forgiveness, then set out in search of another unsuspecting soldier.

Instead of simply bursting the vein, this time Kouri sliced the man with his knife. He thrust his hand at him and spiked the blood away from himself, causing it to impale the soldier through the hip. He fell, screaming in agony. Again, Kouri ran to avoid being seen at the scene of the crime.

So this was the ability of his people. It had been passed down, nearly two hundred years ago from the first Sanado, and refined by generations upon generations. The life blood of the goddess (as he had been taught when he was a child) ran through their veins, from the great tree she had manifested in to protect her earthly children. Kouri remembered the Saeng, towering over the tree canopy and blossoming into the sky, giving protection and providence to all who lived in Congarta.  
He missed his home, his father, that fortitude that he had felt as a child in his strong arms.

Kalind would have known how best to teach him the sacred ways of his people, and how to keep from abusing it.

Kouri found three more soldiers. Each he injured using his power. "Amnao," as it was called by his people. The gift. Each time, he became more fatigued. Eventually he had to find a shady overhang under which to cool down and regain his energy. He could not stop wondering what exactly he was doing. He knew how he was doing it, but not what it was.

Tyrra had not been able to find any records written by the Sanado themselves, describing what exactly that Amnao was. There was speculation that it had something to do with the ability to magnetize the iron in blood, because of their own blood being different from most humans and near humans. It was thick, very iron-dense, and black in color, deep red when spread. A Sanado could not use Amnao on another sanado- they knew that much just from history. The reasoning behind those rule sets had been lost.

As he experimented, Kouri realized that blood-spiking and vein bursting were the only things he could do without completely obliterating someone. Fairly spent, he decided to go back to the inn and to Tyrra. But as he turned to depart, a sound caught his ear and he paused.

Someone was yelling- a woman. The voice was high and shrill, just down the street, blabbering loud words in a language Kouri recognized to be Sandorian but could not understand. He knew he should move on and ignore it, to avoid revealing himself... he knew he should turn and go back to Tyrra. But his heart thudded and ached, telling him to go. He felt the need to help her, if he could.

After all, what was this gift for, if not to protect?

Kouri ran down the street, long legs clearing large strides, jumping over obstacles and dodging around passersby. In the alley he had first departed from after his first kill, he found the woman standing by the body of the soldier he had killed. She had fallen on her rear, shuffling quickly backward from an authority who screamed insults and drew his sword.

He realized with a shocked inhale that he had accidentally framed the woman. She must have been in the alley when the body was discovered.

The guard's blade came crashing down. Kouri leapt forward, tackling the man to the ground.

The woman screamed again, this time in surprise. The soldier yelled and began to struggle, tangling their limbs and causing Kouri to have very little room to move. But being stronger than a human, he managed to yank his left arm out of the man's grasp, ball his fist and punch him in the jaw just as Tyrra had taught him. Bone crunched under his knuckles and the soldier's jaw snapped, crooked. Blood spilled out of his lips. He screamed.

Kouri jumped off of him, but the enraged man swung his sword, jabbing at his head. He dodged just out of the way. It sliced just past his hood and the cloth over his face, causing both to fall down onto his shoulders, revealing his milky skin and crimson hair.

Kouri caught the man's hand on the hilt of the sword, turned away from himself, and before he could stop his own adrenaline crazed movement, stabbed it through the man's heart.

There the enemy lay, still, blood draining. It seemed the only sound in the entire city was the sound of the woman's fear-labored breathing, behind him. People from the streets who heard the commotion stepped into the alley. A few of them froze when they spotted Kouri standing over the corpse, panting. Fingers pointed at him, jaws dropped, and murmurs went through the gathering crowd.

Kouri stepped away from the body, catching his breath in ragged gasps. He had killed, and even though he knew it was most likely deserved, he felt a crippling onrush of shame.  
He had killed.

They stared in awe at him, and only after he had caught his breath did he process that his identity was exposed for all to see. He drew in a sharp gasp and covered his face and hair once more with the damaged cloth. His feet knew the well-practiced motion of running even before he had thought to run. He darted from the alley and found his way back to the inn by back-roads and ruins, hidden from sight.

Even though he had disappeared, the witnesses spread whispers through the street. People spoke of his appearance, out of earshot of the soldiers. Hope blossomed in the hearts of the urchins, and everywhere, the quiet message spread.

The Red Prince Lives.


	9. There Will Be A Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kouri feels guilty about taking lives. He and Tyrra leave Sandori under the cover of night, but not without an observer.

"The Red Prince?" Tyrra mused, shaking her head in disbelief. She dampened a rag at a wash basin across the room and wrung it out, tossing it to him. "I cannot decide if that is meant to be offensive or not. But now, all of Sandori knows you are here. We need to leave."

He caught the rag and omitted crestfallen sigh. They had just arrived, and while he had no desire to be sniffed out by anyone hungry for coin, he longed to find a place where they could be safe, for a long time. Even when they had been with Chatan's group, they had never truly stopped moving around. A wave of exhaustion and fatigue passed over him. Could they not stay in place for one more night?

Kouri wiped his hands and watched the crimson transfer from his skin to the ragged fabric. He wondered about the the families of the men he had killed- wondered if he had orphaned any children or widowed any wives.

Tyrra noticed his downtrodden expression and crossed her arms. "Don't give me the kicked puppy look, Ko. If I am to keep you safe, we need to leave. That new Walenvargian General will be after us sooner or later. If he catches wind of us, wherever he is, he is the last person we want to face."

"What about my training?" Kouri murmured, daring to glance up for a moment. "I know I can use this ability- but not completely how, why, or what ways it can be used. And against a sword, it is defenseless, unless-"

"Unless you kill the swordsman. I know." Tyrra frowned, blowing her bangs away from her face. "And I know you do not wish for that, but if someone is challenging you with a sword, the odds are that they're not your friend. They are not going to care how much you do or do not want to kill them. Do you understand?"

Kouri tried to think of an argument, but his exhaustion-foggy mind was giving him nothing to work with. Instead of arguing with Tyrra (which most likely would have been fruitless anyway) he drew a long breath and nodded. "Alright... I understand."

"Good. I will teach you a few tricks to use against a swordsman before we depart today, just in case. We will be brief, and we pack before we train." She turned to her cot, picking up any clothes she had discarded the day before, cramming them into her backpack. He too stood and began to roll up his own clothing and stash it away.

A thought began to prick at his mind, as they finished packing the last of their belongings. Holding a rolled up map in his hand, he glanced to Tyrra over his shoulder. "Tyrra... how do I know I am not the villain?"

"Whatever do you mean?" She asked without looking up, eyes focused on the cloak she was buttoning at her collarbone.

Kouri glanced down at his hands, remembering the blood stains. "What little of my childhood teaching I do recall stated over and over that the amnao was never to be used on innocent people. Abeo- father- always told me that I would have to learn discernment. That everything is not always how it seems, at first glance, and sometimes those we think are innocent are not always innocent. But those we find guilty are not always guilty."

"What are you saying?" She lifted her head.

Kouri's gaze stayed pointed at the floor. In the brief moments before he spoke again, he saw flashes of gore and heard his own young voice ringing in his ears, begging for mercy while everyone around him was butchered by the bloody claws of Walenvarge, leaving not a soul but himself alive. The sound of an axe cutting through a neck and embedding itself in wood was loud and clear. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, clenching his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

"I am killing men who, to me, are villains. But to their children and wives, who I am leaving helpless by killing their providers, I am the villain. What gives me the right? Why am I continuing this cycle?"

Tyrra hesitated. For what seemed like an age, she was silent. Just as the silence seemed final, she strode to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. "It's different, Kouri." She murmured. "They drew first blood. We cannot allow the individual innocence of one or two soldiers affect us when the mass destruction Melcar is wreaking continues. We have to focus on helping as many people as we can while the oppression continues. Sacrifice the few... save the many."

Kouri shook his head, swallowing. "That does not comfort me. Why can we not save the soldiers as well?"

"Try sometime. I think you will find it more difficult than it would seem. Most of the soldiers are engrained with the propaganda that Melcar has spread to the masses. They believe those of the great races are monsters, and therefore will stop at nothing to kill you." She turned away, synching her backpack shut. "Whether you like it or not, our only option right now is to keep killing any soldiers blocking our path to the people- just like you did to save that woman."

Kouri frowned and laced his pack shut, slinging it over his shoulders and donning his many identity-obscuring layers of cloth.

It took them a while to wrap up loose ends with the innkeeper, but eventually they were able to leave their mataca with the stables and start out on foot. Perhaps departing without their mount would make it less likely for the guards to recognize them. He and Tyrra waited until the cover of darkness returned that night before they crept out from the rooftop of a building near the wall, descending over the side. Beside it was a fig tree, which they stopped and ate from in order to put a little bit of moisture back in their bodies. They would need it for the long journey back across Yerno.

Kouri had just lifted a fig to his lips when he heard a swoosh through the air, and out of instinct, ducked. Tyrra dodged, and the knife embedded in the tree, wobbling upon impact.

He whirled, drawing the small knife Tyrra had given him. In seconds, he pinpointed the figure in the dark standing atop the city wall, wearing a white cloak and hood that nearly glowed in the moonlight.

"I see you, bloodling," called a strangely high male voice. He was small enough to be a boy, but his experienced and oddly familiar stance caused Kouri to feel a kind of fear that he had never felt before. "You have gall, coming here while I reside. I can respect that."

"Kouri, get ready." Tyrra whispered. His feet were poised to flee, but he held position until she spoke the word.

Even in the dark, Kouri could feel the man's gaze biting into his skin. He had to swallow down a clump forming in his throat. Every hair on his arms, neck, and legs stood to attention.

"We will meet again, prince." The voice murmured, motioning dismissively outward, as if allowing for them to escape.

Tyrra didn't take chances. If he was willing to allow them the opportunity to escape, they would take it. She tapped Kouri's shoulder, and they took off, running into the night. They continued at a jog until reaching a few small nomadic camps a mile or two outside of Sandori, which they camped nearby but did not interact with. Kouri could still feel the blood rushing through his face and hands, even though they were safely out of range.

"Who was that?" He asked, watching over his shoulder. He worried that as soon as they got comfortable for the night, they would be followed. "Did you recognize him?"

"Not in the dark." Tyrra growled. "Dammit... now that he's spotted us, we will have to be very careful to avoid him. He talked as though..." she trailed off, following his gaze back to Sandori in the distance, merely a raised black spot on the horizon. "I think The was the General."

Kouri's heart squeezed.

Oh by the mother goddess, he hoped not. If the government of Walenvarge was awakened to his presence, and he was no longer just a ghost or a rumor, he could only imagine how much more difficult his life would become. He looked to the south, where his home lay, and begged a silent prayer.

I cannot die yet. I must live to tell my tale. I must help the people of Harruar.


	10. Under The Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The underbelly of Harruar stirs.

Location Unknown

Drip, drip, drip.

Reemar used the drip in the cave as a pace for his thoughts. Of all the long, damp tunnels unknown to the rest of Harruar, this one was the least soggy. It was long and wide, and had many corridors, one of them leading to the surface. It gave relief from the stale air farther down.

The Red Prince Lives.

The rumor, written on paper and sent by a hawk's talons, echoed through his brain. The wrinkles around his mouth and brow deepened. He ran a tan, leathery-skinned hand through his hair, of dark blue hue like stormy clouds, long on one side and shaved on the other. His left eye was blurry- he could barely see through it, due to the scarring from a burn in the years of his youth.

If it was true, then Kouri the son of Kalind, Red Prince of Congarta, was alive. His chest fluttered at that thought. It could be a turning point in the Walenvargian oppression; it could be a ray of hope for him and his apprentices. He nearly scoffed at the word 'apprentice' as it surfaced in his mind. Often, surrounded by so many more powerful near-humans, he felt more like the apprentice than the teacher.

A screech sounded through the cave. Reemar lifted his head and smiled, as his feathered friend zipped through the passageway and landed on his outstretched arm. His leathery skin resisted tearing under the white talons, and the regal bird squawked a greeting to him, closing its eyes and lowering its head.

Reemar leaned forward and closed his own eyes, bringing his forehead in contact with the bird's brow. He felt a pulse in the air around him, and suddenly knew through the transfer of information- the Red Prince had left Sandori.

He opened his eyes and his smile grew, moving his fingers to scratch under the bird's beak. Its blue, teal and white feathers fluttered, shaking off his touch. Two antenna-like feathers on either side of its head began to lay flat again, having served their telepathic purpose.

"Be careful flying that far, Fritz." He murmured to the bird. "Had they seen you, they would have shot you and harvested your feathers in an instant."

Fritz merely shook out his regal head, and climbed up Reemar's arm, perching on his shoulder, where the bird cozied himself in the downy feathers on his chest and promptly went to sleep.

Reemar let his smile fall, an exhale escaping his lips. Sandori was far out of his or any of his colleagues' reach. There were far too many Walenvargian soldiers there, and even if they were soft and inexperienced, his apprentices would be spotted and might risk leading Walenvarge to the location of the caves. He could not afford for that to happen, nor did he see any merit in risking it.

Still...

"Zaj," he called, glancing down the dimly torch-lit passage.

There was silence at first. Then, a hissing sound like a snake or some large reptile split the quiet air. A pair of reptilian eyes opened in the dark corridor, focusing on him.

"Yessss?" The female voice was amused. Her tongue came into view, licking sharp teeth, gleaming in the yellow light.

"I want you to track the Red Prince." Reemar murmured. "Find him, watch him. Report weekly, but do not make contact with him. Can you do that?"

"Do not teassse me." The voice snickered. "You know I will sssee it through."

Her eyes closed, and a harsh gust of wind blew past him. A passing flash of color told him that she was on her way.

Reemar looked down at the hawk on his shoulder.

"We may not be able to apprehend him yet," he murmured. "But we can watch out for him."


	11. Merely A Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The General of Walenvarge faces Melcar, having failed to apprehend Kouri and Tyrra.

Walenvarge City

Walenvarge Alliance, Far Eastern Harruar

The King's general could feel annoyance burning through his veins, like an affliction with no cure.

He didn't belong in the city- and he wouldn't have been there, had he been able to kill that Bloodling.

He hadn't tried. Though he had been preparing all of his life for the moment he would come face to face with the Sanado prince, he had been unable to make himself do anything, beyond give him a warning. The sheer reality of who he had been standing in front of had hit him in the chest like a rock, and caused his usually balanced composure to shudder.

Guilt had bubbled within him, ever since that moment. Even more so when he was summoned to the throne, knowing full well what he was there for. To give the report of his failure.

Not only had he been unable to fulfill the orders of the king, to bring any remaining members of the great races directly to the throne room, but he had been unable to fulfill his own lifelong purpose; to bring as much agony into the Sanado prince's final moments as he possibly could, even if he lost his own life in the process.

His personal report was due. Word of the Bloodling's appearance had reached Melcar by way of a riding messenger, and the letter that had come as a reply was a simple 'Meet with me.'

The boy shook his head, walking the marble halls of the king's grand palace, his cloth-wrapped feet echoing a plap plap plap against the cold stone. It was too hot to wear the formal clothes of the Walenvargian nobles and commanders, though he had been issued a set of jackets and riding pants, as well as a decorative cloak. Instead, he wore a simple grey and silver embroidered vest that clasped down his torso and his cleanest pair of baggy white pants, bound at the ankle with decorative anklets. It all allowed for easy breathing in the dry, hot weather.

At first, he panicked over what to say or how to say it- how to explain his incompetence, when he himself barely understood it. He knew what questions would be asked. He knew his loyalty would be on the line. Nevertheless, he marched down the hall, approaching the floor to ceiling carved birch doors which were swung open by soldiers in full armor, decorative royal blue capes falling down their shoulders.

Lavender head held high, he entered, marching down the carpet in the middle of the room with his khopesh strapped to his hip. Several courtiers standing along the columns of the gaping room turned, murmuring quiet words in condescending tones. His foreign getup clearly upset them, but the king upon his throne, the iron crown of Walenvarge resting on his head, showed no sign of disturbance. His back was straight, hands resting on the arms of his seat, thin legs crossed.

"King Melcar." He bowed, his voice dry. "You summoned me."

King Melcar's cloudy grey eyes narrowed underneath a metal mask, covering from his cheekbones to his forehead. In a way, he looked timeless- long white hair swept down his back like spider silk, and his face held no visible wrinkles of age. He was young, perhaps only twenty or so. Thin, slender, regal, decorated with a velvet jacket of deep blue and a pair of black leather riding pants, a knife strapped at his hip and a snow-rabbit fur lining to a cape starting at his shoulders and ending at his ankles. To many commoners, he was a picture of splendor, a man so young that had conquered nations and saved the last human kingdom from obliteration at the hands of races who were believed to be superior.

But to himself, the man was a stuck up prat, with far too feminine a sense of style and no balls. He should be out on the fronts, directing his forces. Instead, he passed off all of the heavy lifting on the shoulders of his few trusted subordinates.

"You tell me you encountered the 'Red Prince,' but did not apprehend him." Melcar responded, evenly dry. "I believe I specifically remember giving you orders, Kataar. You were to bring him to me upon sight, with minimal injuries. Now that we know for certain that he lives, he must be captured and chained into my control once and for all."

"Yes lord, see, that is a tad difficult when his partner is a trained plains-born bodyguard." Kataar snapped back, finding his own eyes narrowing into a harsh glare. A few of the courtiers murmured at his words. How dare he speak that way to the king, they wondered. A few others muttered about his mention of the Mid-Harruarian Plains. Until the night he had encountered them from atop the walls of Sandori, the identity of the girl had been unknown. The revelation of her allegiances could shift political stances quite negatively, making another enemy for Walenvarge, if she was still under the protection of her country.

When Melcar did not immediately respond, Kataar continued. "Regardless, our occupation of Sandori is already on the brink of collapse. You are careless with your soldiers and your regulations there. I am operating under fetters that no longer bind these people. The existence of the Sanado could be a reason to spark rebellion in the west, if you cannot bring yourself to stop eating bon-bons on your cushy chair and show Harruar what true leadership means."

Kataar knew his limits. He knew that these words alone would not be enough to bring punishment down on his head. He knew he could push a bit farther, and the king would not push back. What's more, he had no plans to bring Kouri to Melcar. When he found him, and the opportunity presented itself, he would kill him and claim the victory.

Melcar shifted. A moment of silence passed as he formulated a response, appearing a bit irked by Kataar's words.

"Sandori means little to me. Walenvarge's forces can crush them in an instant, should they riot. The desert country of Yerno has no value, except to be a scorching hell-scape into which I throw my criminals. You know this. And do not play the bodyguard against me- I know you are stronger than she... or so you told me when you rose to your position." He stood, long legs unfolding, stepping down from the terrace on which sat his throne. "You have failed me once. Now I am certain that you will fail me again."

Kataar gritted his teeth, forcing his posture to stay lax as the king approached him, hands clasped behind his regal back. His blood boiled in his veins. Melcar questioning his abilities caused a cocktail of annoyance and shame. He could do better.

Why had he been unable?

"You are a boy, Kataar. Merely fourteen. And for that reason, I give you grace, on only this occasion. Perhaps it truly was a fault of your youth that you were unable to capture the bloodling." His voice was nothing but a whisper. "Your father could have done far better for me. Use this opportunity to show me that you can be more useful to me than Hatya was... or I will dispose of you."

The boy swallowed down bile and curses. Clenching his jaw, he dipped his head. "Yes lord."

Melcar turned back to his throne, seating himself with ease, and Kataar stalked down the hall, preparing to take fifty soldiers and go after the bloodling.

He hated being doubted. He hated being questioned. He hated it even more when he knew Melcar was right. He had failed, and if he continued to allow himself to make excuses, he would only make more mistakes.

Kataar would prove that he was worthy of his title.


	12. Ashul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kouri and Tyrra reach the mountainous realm of Ashul. Tyrra yearns to visit her lover, Ageael Cross.

Leaving Yerno was a lengthy trip. Kouri and Tyrra traveled for a week, mostly at night, lying low in the day.

Twice, Kouri caught sight of groups of four people walking across the sands, talking to one another in hushed tones. He recognized their attire and the bulge of hidden weapons under their clothes, and knew they were bounty hunters.

Whether they were looking specifically for him or not, he did not know. But it made his stomach flip. Just being so dangerously close to people who wanted him hung on their walls like a trophy caused shivers down his spine.

Ashul, the country bordering with Yerno, the Mid-Harruarian Plains and the Otheli peninsula, was mostly filled by the mossy evergreen heights of the Condor Mountains. It was cooler, being a bit farther north than Kouri was familiar with, but most likely a great place for hiding. The steep slopes and rock overhangs would make it quite difficult to find any targeted prey. As soon as Kouri and Tyrra saw the barren desert turn to soft soil, green foliage and a few scattered spruce trees, they knew they had safely left Yerno behind.

Several caravans going south-west passed them on their way, carrying water and dried meat, to re-sell in Sandori, most likely. He and Tyrra stopped to trade with them, both of them covering their faces to avoid being recognized. Kouri was delighted to find potatoes among their wares, and immediately bought three for himself.

"You'll spend all our money on useless tubers." Tyrra snorted, helping him put the dusty brown lumps in his pack. They waved goodbye to the traders and continued on their way.

A day later, they cut sharply North, right toward the crotch of the westernmost divide of the Condors, avoiding needless climbing to reach the top. The spruces became far more closely placed together, and taller, shooting up into the sky, their dead needles mixing with what little grass that could grow. It crunched under their feet, making silent hiking difficult.

Kouri found himself picking pine needles out of his clothes every mile that they went. The spines seemed to pierce right through him.  
Finally, at sun down, Tyrra stopped them under a large overhang, somewhere toward the spine of the peaks. She lit a small fire, and Kouri cooked one of his potatoes, munching on it slowly to savor it. They reminded him of a very faint memory from his childhood, and tasted similar to roots he had eaten as a boy in Congarta. It had been so long ago...

"I think, in the next few days, after the fuss has died down," Tyrra mumbled as she munched through her jerky. "we need to visit Ageael Cross."

"Oh?" Kouri looked up, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. They had not seen Ageael in months. He was one of the few men Kouri could call a friend. Ever since discovering them and willfully keeping their secret, he'd done anything he could to crush the rumors of their existence in Harruar's north-east, and keep Kouri and Tyrra safe from prying eyes. He was truly one of the last good hearts in Walenvarge's nobility, but had given up his family's position in order to become an ambassador for Resk, Tekati and Yavaahck.

"I'm thinking we can find out more about this new general of Walenvarge, through him. And... it has been a while since I've seen him." Tyrra rubbed her hand up her arm. Kouri recognized that little quirk. He knew she was thinking about more than official business.

A small romance has blossomed between Ageael and Tyrra, shortly after they had gained one another's trust. Though she never talked much about him, Kouri could sense Ageael meant far more to Tyrra than she ever let on.

"I hope he he's still on our side." Kouri murmured, looking down at his food.

"He is," Tyrra assured, without explanation. "Now. Get into those books and read up on the races that inhabit these mountains. I don't want you getting us into trouble with cultural misunderstandings, mm?"

Kouri rolled his eyes, but picked up his books and began to read by the firelight.

~

In the morning, he and Tyrra awoke and walked a few miles, getting familiar with the terrain and their surroundings. They could hear a few voices far in the distance, but based on the sound of them, Kouri guessed they were only Wahneh people, peaceful inhabitants living at the bases of the mountains in simple ways. From what he had read, they judged their visitors based upon aura. How they saw an aura, Kouri did not know. He had never been gifted with that ability.

"And what was the Great Race that dwelled in these mountains?" Tyrra quizzed him, as they climbed down a small hill, toward the little Wahneh village of small wooden and spruce limb huts.

Kouri used his large paddle-like feet to descend sideways down the hill, bracing against the nearly vertical slope with his arm in case he should fall. They landed on solid ground again and walked toward the village. "The Great Race was the Ganotsi, a race of people known for their leathery skin, which they were named after." He recited, picking a flower along the way, sniffing it. It smelled like almost like honey. "Their hair is so black that it reflects in a blue tinge, almost navy. Often they have larger lungs than your average near-human or human, and are able to function at extremely high altitudes."

Tyrra nodded. "Trades? Traditions? Values?" She stopped at the trodden path that lead into the village, looking up at him.

He turned, facing her. "Trades... furs, leather, and the best hawks in Harruar. Traditions... Each child is given a bird to raise at the age of eight- an Odanv, or in layman's terms, a telepathic falcon. They share a bond with it and can see through its eyes, and communicate with it through their minds. Values...." he shrugged. "Everything, really. They saw the earth as sacred, though broken. They believe that we are stewards of the soil, the animals, and the plants, and that it is our duty to take care of them and assure they do not starve, by hunting them and replenishing their environment. Marriage is sacred, and they believe that a man or woman should only marry once in their life."

Tyrra smiled. "It's a romantic notion." She murmured, pushing some hair out of her face. "Harruar needs a race like them. They could have helped to keep the peace. I suppose that is why Melcar got rid of them."

Kouri nodded, falling into a solemn silence.

The silence didn't last long. A woman called a greeting to them, waving from the front porch of her small home, a smile on her face. Kouri did not understand. He simply waved in response.

"She wants to welcome us." Tyrra chuckled. "We'll review later. Come on."


End file.
